


Creative Nonfiction

by Haruka_Malayo



Category: Original Work
Genre: Mental Health Issues, Multi, Real Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 18:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haruka_Malayo/pseuds/Haruka_Malayo
Summary: A collection of the 'creative nonfictions' I've written over the years to deal with my mental health issues and cult of the mind.





	1. Vicious Cycle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted December 15, 2011.

I dream, I wake up, I go through my day, I dream, I wake up. This is my life these days.

  
I dreamed that I was on stage, behind the Korg, as you stood in front playing your guitar and singing out loud. I hit every note the way I needed to, in perfect unison, with the crowd cheering and praising until the power went out and when I opened my eyes, you weren't there.

  
I dreamed that you brought pizza into the radio station and almost dropped it when you saw me. We talked for hours, catching up, talking about old times and trading stories. But when I opened my eyes, my boss was standing outside the van, cell phone in hands and a blank look on his face.

  
I dreamed that we were dancing together, and you took my hand and whirled me around to the music. I dreamed that I took your last name, that we strung the red thread of fate around our fingers, and swore we would never be apart. Until you said you were sorry and I stared at the ceiling, praying for you to come back.

  
I dreamed that I was back on your couch, Diet Sunkist in hand, as we watched the movie. I closed my eyes and felt the sugar high and you led me through that night, and when I woke up, the can was gone and my mother was scolding me for being a bad girl.  
I dreamed that you were still talking to me again. I dreamed that you put your arm around me and kissed me like you used to, and I stole that hat off of your head and you let me keep it. I dreamed that you weren't critical of me, like you once used to be, and that you never, ever lied to me. I still wish you hadn't.

  
I dreamed of Tuesday mornings and late nights, of Christmas lights and penguins and trust that was broken, of a reality that wasn't a dream. I dreamed that, when we talked on the Eiffel Tower, that you changed your mind. I woke up and we both cried.

  
I dreamed that I stopped losing people. I dreamed that you came back and decided that you were going to love me, and me alone. I dreamed that I met you at the altar and we swore we would love each other forever. But that's just a dream. That could never happen.

  
I had another dream recently. I was riding the one train home from Washington Heights, and you texted me saying you were in Times Square. I wasn't sure how you had gotten all the way from the edge of the world to Times Square. All I knew was that I could catch an express train at 96th Street to get to you quicker. I woke up, and I wasn't even in New York City, but I could still feel your smile on my lips.

  
This time, when I'm awake, I will go to Times Square and become your knight in shining armor, because some dreams deserve to come true.


	2. Breakthrough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted May 12, 2012.

_I couldn't get it into my head --_  
the rhythm of goodbye.   
  
March 28, 2008, approx. 10:00 PM.  
  
He stops walking.

  
The hustle and bustle of the city surrounds him, cars blazing past, people talking, horns blaring, noise upon noise upon noise. And yet...and yet he swears he just heard his name called. Like somebody is looking for him.

  
He looks to his right, then his left; nobody looks familiar. This area doesn't look familiar. When did he get to Herald Square? The only way he's able to tell is because the Macy's signs are still lit up, and the M34 bus still runs at this time of night.

  
At this time of night -- he thought he was back in Washington Heights. How did he get all the way down here?

  
"Well, don't you look lost."

  
He jumps and turns toward the voice. Nobody there. He adjusts his hat and heavy jacket; it's cold, even in March. New York rivals Chicago for windy, dark days. Life near Lake Erie has prepared him for this, though.

  
He's more concerned about where that voice is coming from.

  
"Over here." This time, with a chuckle. He follows the voice and ducks under the Empire State Building's entrance, an overhang regally lit. There are two guards, and plenty of tourists, but still nobody else. It's late. His ears are playing tricks on him. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at his reflection in the window -- short stature, skinny build, coat's too big for him. Stringy black hair kept short, blue -- wait.

  
His eyes are brown.

  
"Gotcha."

  
He jumps a foot away from the glass, then turns -- and there he is. Tall, formidable, in a white uniform with blue stripes. A police officer with snow white hair and piercing blue eyes that are so blue, he thinks they're green. They probably are green.

  
The man with the white hair speaks again. "Nice night for a walk in Herald Square, am I right?"

  
The boy holds his distance. Strangers usually don't talk to him. He's quiet enough that he can slip by somebody unnoticed. He doesn't want to be noticed. But he's done this college stint in New York City since September, and he can handle anything...right?

  
He puts up his fists. "Stand back."

  
"Oh, I have no intention of hurting you. It's just that you looked so familiar." Snow White looks deep in thought. "Am I right, Aki-chan?"

  
His now blue eyes widen. Before he knows it, his memories take him back -- to the girl with braids in her long brown hair and starry blue eyes, the girl who drew in her spare time and apparently created music, though he had never bothered to listen to it. The way she listened to him. The way he had played with her, sat next to her...kissed her. The times he stayed up until two in the morning. The fights they had, the lies he told, the feelings of rejection. He had felt justified back then. She was wrong. He was sure of it. If she couldn't handle it, she could leave.

  
But there is a man here, in Herald Square, right in front of him, with white hair and a commanding presence about him, and he had just called him Aki-chan. _A name only she knew. A name she had given him._

  
It couldn't be.

  
"You're not one of...them, are you?"

  
The white haired man laughs. "You deduce well, Aki-chan. I'm aware that she tried to tell you. I'm also aware that you didn't listen."

  
Aki-chan fumes. "Who are you to --"

  
"Are you aware that she's in this city, right now?"

  
He freezes. That girl -- his smiling girl, the one he lost -- she was here? In New York City? He feels his heart leap. Where is she?

  
But he can't just ask that. He can't really go to see her, no matter where she is. She is a woman, after all, and he is a man. They have their divisions, their separations. That is, after all, how it should be --

  
"She's up there." The white haired man points up. "Eighty six stories up, on the lower observation deck. Jesse's up there with her. And so am I, in one form or another."

  
Aki-chan stops breathing. "How do you know all of this?" Even though he already knows the answer.

  
Another laugh. "Let's just say I watch out for her. She's very important to me, just like she's very important to you, Aki-chan."

  
He blushes. "Is she really up there?"

  
"Of course she is. I wouldn't lie to you. She's on a class trip, all the way from little old Oxford." The white haired man crosses his arms. His green eyes do not leave Aki-chan. "To be honest, she picked up two free postcards in the lobby. One for her, and one for you. I don't know if she'll ever mail yours, but she's been thinking of you the entire trip. Wondering if she'll somehow run into you, even though it's such a big city."

  
His knees buckle.

  
_She wasn't kidding._

  
What she said -- that night --

  
could it be true?

  
He looks up at the landing's brightly lit ceiling. Eighty six stories separate him and the one person who has cared about him. He left her for society, lied to get her off of his case. A victim of circumstance. She tried to push his limits, and he had pushed her away.

  
But now -- now that she is so close -- what can he do? There is nothing he can do. Tradition prevents that.

  
He hears his name again. In a girl's voice. _Aki-chan?_ He has never actually heard her voice before, but he knows it's her. And he can't control what he is feeling anymore.

  
_It's too late. I'm too late._

_  
Can you hear me? It's me, Aki-chan! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry..._

  
He jumps; looking up, he sees the white haired man has knelt by his side, putting one hand on his shoulder. His green eyes are still on Aki-chan. "I'm going to give you one chance," he says. "While this is still fresh. While you still remember how to feel something other than what you've been taught. While you're still outside your fence. This is the only chance we'll get." He takes a deep breath. "Aki-chan...what do you really want?"

  
Nobody has ever asked him that before. Really asked him, not about food or clothing preferences, but about his life plan. About what he really wanted to do. He has always assumed he'll go into business, start a family, live in happiness in Cleveland for his years. Until this past summer, and the heartbreak that followed. A childhood dream lived out, shattered at the end.

  
And she was there, heartbroken as well. She had picked up his pieces and made him whole again, and he hadn't ever realized that...until now.

  
She had written a song about it. About that summer. She had even sent it to him, until he had told her he couldn't listen to it and she insisted he destroy it.

  
"More than anything..." His words come out uneasy in the cold March wind. "More than anything, I want to hear her sing."

  
The man touches Aki-chan's lips with his finger, and he can now see the green in his eyes. He gasps as a shiver runs down his spine. It's an electricity he's never felt before. Uncomfortable. This man can read him like a book.

  
_Who is he -- who is really? What relation does he have to her? Is he -- is he really her --_

  
"If you can't hear her sing, then you can become her voice." Then, wings spread wide, and Aki-chan is caught in the shadow of feathers, long white feathers with soft down, real feathers that rise and fall as the white haired man breathes.

  
"I'm dreaming," he says. "She isn't really here. She hates me."

  
"Oh, quite the contrary," the man turned angel says back. "It may be a while. She isn't ready yet. You're not ready yet. I can't tell the future, but I can make sure you meet again, make sure she sings to you. Would you like that?"

  
Aki-chan nods. Any disbelief is beyond him. _Her angel_ is in front of him. "Yes."

  
"Well, then." And Aki-chan feels the angel's lips graze his forehead, and then his hat is gone, naked before the Lord, turned inside out and invisible by those green eyes. For God's messenger has been sent to this lonely lost boy, and this is all real, and maybe he's wrong, and maybe she really will sing for him someday.

  
He feels his eyelids go heavy and hears the angel's words. "Fight for what you want, Aki-chan. Not just for you, but for her. Because when you come back, you'll be coming back as someone special, as someone she loves. I have a feeling you'll be a great present to her when she needs you most."

  
Aki-chan's last words are just a breath. "What will I be?"

  
Micky smiles. "Her muse."


	3. Scene Shifts There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted June 13, 2012.
> 
> I hate this piece.

 

I wake up to a sound I haven't heard in a long time.

  
It's a melody, repeating over and over, a bright cascade of notes in primary colors. I roll over, batting for my cell phone, but instead, my hand meets the wall. My eyes snap open. The wall is supposed to be to my right side, not my left. Facing me on the wall, to my left, is a sign, written in my handwriting, torn out of a sketchpad.

  
It reads: "I mean it. Get up. NOW."

  
I bolt up and it is all real to me: the scattered clothes around the room, the pictures on the wall, the amusement park posters over my head. This is my room, but it's not. Because the door is at one o'clock, facing me in that slant that means somebody didn't give it enough care when they built this townhouse, and the twin bed I'm in isn't mine, and the desk to my right isn't mine.

  
OhmyGod -- I stop myself. Those words feel weird coming out of my mouth now that I'm here again. It's okay. I'm dreaming. It's cool. I'm cool. I breathe out a sigh, then inspect myself: I feel pretty much the same, wearing a white t-shirt and those blue and white boxer shorts that my parents got me for some holiday one time. That and the fuzzy socks on my feet, and the black and blue --

  
Holy shit.

  
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod -- and I know exactly where I am. It's April, and it's my junior year at Miami. I catch my breath, because I know that this black and blue hoodie that sits on my bed belongs to someone I hold very special to me, someone who in a month's time won't even exist in my life. (Not for another few years, anyway. But that's a story for another day.) I grab the hoodie from where it is sitting on the bed next to me and inspect it. Yeah; it's the same one. I can't even think straight. I can't even tell if being back here, in this place and time, is a good turn of events or not. Because I have grown so much as a person since I lost my friend.

  
My mind goes back to another event during my career at Miami. If it is April of 2009, that means I haven't met Dylan yet. That means -- and my breath catches again. That means he might not even be here. I remember what he told me a long time ago, what he swore I should keep as a secret. I have kept that secret for a long time, shushed and hidden under the carpet, but I have never forgotten what it means. But have I learned from Dylan's mistake? Is any of this real? Or am I just hallucinating because I drank too much Mountain Dew again last night while writing Rhythm Buster?

  
I am figuring this out, and then I am calling Stacey, I think to myself. And I know exactly what to reach for: Mugen. He's a prettier red now, two and a half years before I trade him for Thunderbolt, mostly out of necessity. I still have Mugen, actually. He sits on my iHome, chilling with Threej. Someday I think my Samsung Rant and my third generation iPod will collaborate and take over the world. I think they'd just have a long way to fall from twenty three stories.

  
If I ever get back to Normandie. I reach for Mugen and unplug him, finally silencing the alarm. I wonder if I've woken Spadz up. Probably not. That girl slept through Hurricane Ike, so she's probably cool.

  
The alarm is off, and there's already a text message waiting for me. I read it and smile. Long ago, I took all of his texts and wrote them down, wiping them one by one from Mugen so I could move on. But that time hasn't happened yet. Those texts are still here. He is still here.

  
"Oh, Len." I roll my eyes and text him back, letting him know I'm up. What is today? I don't even know what my class schedule should be. For all I know, I've slept through another class. Not that it matters, if this is a dream. I look around the room, the clothes and pictures I've got piled up underneath my desk, the textbooks that I'll never care about again in a few years, save for Mr. Bauer's which I still have in a box in Ohio. Ringo is on top of the desk, sleeping, still with his original plug, and I recognize those headphones. Ringo's bag is at the foot of the bed, and I pick it up and leaf through it. Thank goodness -- my license, my debit card, and my student ID are all here, as well as the MetroCard I would give Dylan a year from now. If I remember correctly, the Red bus leaves every fifteen minutes for campus. I still have no clue what today's schedule is, but I think I'll live it up.

  
I grab my phone and text Len again. "Meet me at Shriver for lunch?" Thursday lunches are our usual thing, though we used to eat at his dorm if I remember correctly. After what happened, I'm not comfortable with that anymore, even now, before chaos has hit.  
I forget about classes completely and pack my bag, taking Ringo with me. After getting an iPhone, the constant need to be plugged in has finally overtaken me, but Mugen doesn't have that many smartphone capabilities. If I get the sudden urge to look something up, I'll need Ringo, and I get a lot of those urges. From there, I just shoulder the bag and put on my trusted jean jacket and walk to campus in the jeans I got at Walmart my sophomore year.

  
Mugen says it's April 9, 2009. If it is, I'm going to enjoy it. Oxford and Miami are a blaze of color and activity as I walk the thirty minutes from the townhouse to Shriver. I pass the Buick and laugh because, in a few years' time, I'll be riding trains every day instead; Kroger hasn't gone through its remodel yet; I pass the train tracks and remember the special event for Kings Island's Diamondback hasn't happened yet, which reminds me that there is no orchestra today. I breathe a huge sigh of relief, then realize that I do have Mr. Bauer's class today. I wouldn't miss that for the world, even if I have no freaking clue what's going on. Perhaps I'll just tell him I'm a time traveler. I think he'd actually believe me.

  
Shriver is busy for a Thursday, and I'm in luck: corn chowder is on the menu. I don't know how much is on my meal plan, but I get to use the card for it, something i wish I could still do. I take the soup and sit in the fishbowl, windows surrounding me in a medium sized room with tables and chairs. The fishbowl is slightly quieter than the rest of the student lounge because there are no televisions, just students studying. I'm reminded of Miranda, but not in a good way. If I look behind me, through the glass, I can see the Center for Performing Arts and the fountains. My main building. Then I look to the right and see Hiestand Hall. Dylan's building.

  
I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

  
I want to scream. Instead, I take a deep breath and face Len, giving him back his hoodie. "This would be yours."

  
He raises an eyebrow, and for a second, I see how we could have really come across as brother and sister, twin siblings. Oh, how wrong everybody was. "You okay, sis?"

  
I want to scream. I want to scream, to make sure I don't cry, to make sure I don't just rush forward and stop time and keep everything the way it is right here and right now, before May hits and my world shatters just like reality. I take another deep breath and remember something else, something I won't find out for another two years, something that just flashes by my mind. _"Since then, every single day...from that day on, I've been here! So you don't have to be alone!"_

  
I smile. I know something Len doesn't, something that will take me to the city we both wanted so badly to go to. And I know it's okay. I can let this moment be what it is. "Yeah, I'm fine. Writing?"

  
And we sit and we write. I don't even know what he's working on, probably another installment of his serial. To be honest, I'm not sure how it ended, or if it even ended. I hardly keep up with him anymore. I recently learned the entire truth behind his disappearance. I hate how I blamed him for so long, but the truth isn't so easy to find sometimes. It's a tricky, complicated web. Some people say truth is simple, but the fact about truth is that since it is so precious, those who are in control of it try to hide it. Prying truth from watchful mouths is kind of like taking penguins away from Jesse.

  
I laugh to myself. I know Jesse here, in this world of 2009. He's the one constant in my world of craziness and insanity, though he hasn't changed yet. I bet he's hanging out with Jeremiah. I'll have to call him later. I know he'll stop by.

  
I open up Ringo. On the desktop is a picture of the Kagamine twins, Len and Rin. That's me, and that's Len, and the picture's not mine, but we're together on this desktop picture, happiness and power and something that's not truth but might as well be it. March of 2008. Empire State Building. One little muse, one little truth, and they are more connected than anybody thinks, but for right now, he is still my secret.

  
"...Rin?"

  
I jump. In this dream, that's what Len is calling me. He had another name for me, but that's my secret. "Yes, Len?"

  
There's that damned smile again. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I was asking if you were free tonight. I was going to see the play at Gates-Abegglen. Do you want to come?" And there is that glimmer in those eyes that asks if, yes, I will come, because in this moment he loves me as his sister and I love him as my brother and this is all just so fucked up and wrong and -- wait.

  
My eyes widen. I haven't even opened TextEdit on Ringo yet, though I don't even know what book I'll work on. At this point in my writing career, most of my books will never make it out of first draft mode. I've learned to be okay with that, considering that Cosmic kicks so much ass and that Rhythm Buster makes Dylan a very happy camper.

  
But Dylan --

  
oh, Dylan...

  
"I'm coming," I say to Len. "But I might have business to take care of."

  
And I do. I go to Mr. Bauer's class, though I have to remind myself which floor it is on. I take Ringo in and do my best to listen and try to follow along because I am just clueless but I love every minute of it. I run over to the CPA and consider myself lucky because there is no piano forum tonight, which means there is an extra hour and a half of my time that is mine. I walk around the fountains, through the band field, through the basement of the CPA. I reach into my bag and pull out the grand piano practice room key, go into room 8, play. I go into room 35 and cry.

  
I don't know what I am going to do. I really don't. But I know one fact for sure: I can't give up. This is a one act play, and the scene shifts here. In a way, my entire life revolves around this night, even though I had no clue at the time. I don't even know if it has happened yet. I sit at the proctor's table, try not to cry again, look at the posters and the bad paint job that hasn't been painted over yet. I swipe my card and get a Dew from the vending machine. Ringo says that the play is being directed by Smolder, which I am stoked about since he helped direct Paul Bunyan back in November, back when the moon turned blue and everything was as perfect as the stars themselves.

  
Ringo also says the play opens tonight. That means he is here. I have less than one chance for this, but I catch myself. I can't do this. I really can't. Because I have spent way too much time in this continuum and I think I might actually not be dreaming. And if I'm not dreaming, that means I really have traveled back in time, somehow. And if I've traveled back in time and Dylan sees me -- he doesn't know who I am yet. He just knows me as that hipster chick who walks around campus with headphones on. I know him as Scenes from an Italian Restaurant Boy. I don't even know if Scenes from an Italian Restaurant has happened yet! I think it has! I don't know for sure!

  
But I have to rack my brain. How could Dylan not recognize me?

  
And then I have an idea.

  
The night falls and I sneak back to the CPA, minus Ringo, minus my bag. Len drives me, half because I want him by my side and half because I look like an idiot. "I don't get it, Rin," he said as he pulls into the parking lot.

  
"That's okay," I say. "Just let me do my thing." And I almost jump out of his car and into the CPA, but before I go, I pull him close one last time before the clock strikes twelve and he disappears. "I love you, Len. Don't forget that. More than anything."

  
The sigh is happy. "I love you too, Rin." And then I am up and gone and embracing my destiny as the morning star.

  
The theater department is a mess as they get ready for the evening play. Len thinks I will be meeting up with him in the audience, considering he bought my ticket ahead of time. But I know, somehow, that's not true. I duck into the green room for a split second, surrounded by makeup artists and actors getting ready. They all probably think I'm an idiot as well, but whatever. Let them think that. I've got bigger issues to deal with. I take a deep breath and see the coast is clear, then dart out of the green room and down the steps.

  
He is down here somewhere. He. The real person I love, the one whom I wish could be my real twin. The one who annoys me to no end, but the one I love nonetheless. The person who finally was the one to pull me out of my hole. In part, the reason I moved to New York City, because of eighteen crazy shit days and a cake and a midnight rave and a -- I hold back tears. Where is that stupid boy?

  
And then I pause, because there are ushers and they are dressed all in black and there he is. I totally forget what he is supposed to be doing tonight, but I remember the story Dylan told, how he was working backstage at this play. If I remember correctly, history happened differently, too. Len went to go see the play first and then dragged me along to see it, but I took a liberty because I knew I had to be here, looking at this boy with the blonde shaggy hair and the blue eyes of wonder and the furrowed lines across his forehead. I duck around another corner, as I'm not supposed to be here at all. Nobody is, really. But I wait until everybody passes and watch as Dylan walks down the hallway all by himself.

  
This was Miami for him. All by himself, while I was surrounded by friends and Jesus and happiness. I come out into the dark hallway. "Dylan."

  
He turns. I can't see his features, but I know he's surprised. This is my boyfriend, after all, a year before we've actually met. He strains to see me through the dark. "Who are you? And why --"

  
I stay put. "I don't have much time, mostly because you've got to be wherever it is you're supposed to be."

  
He pulls out a flip phone, eons before he gets his Blackberry, I'm sure. In the present day, his Blackberry makes Mugen look good, and I know he's aware of that. But right now, he just uses the phone to see my white shirt with the black collar, my black shorts, dark arm and leg warmers, blonde hair with the white ribbon in it. "Just who are --"

  
"Who do you think I am, tiger? Don't run away from me. I know more about you than you think I do."

  
Dylan stops. I know if I don't make my case, he'll run. It's just the two of us in this dim limestone hallway now. "Who do you think you are?"

  
I laugh. "Your guardian angel."

  
Dylan laughs. I know at this point in his life there is no way in hell he would ever believe in anything like this, but I've got him beat. "Prove it."

  
"Your jersey number is 28 in club football. To honor your father, who served twenty eight years on the police force. You went to New York City in high school as part of a class trip. You work for IT services, which will be something you remember fondly years from now. You drive a Toyota, or drove." I have to laugh; I don't know if he's wrecked his Toyota or not at this point. For all I know, he has the Taurus already. "I get the present and your future mixed up sometimes."

  
He's skeptical. "You know my future? Tell me."

  
I cross my arms. Now I've got him for sure. "I know what you're going to do, Dylan. I don't know if I have a chance at stopping you. I don't even know where you've got them hidden."

  
His eyes widen. Aw, man. I've got him hook, line, and sinker. Before he gets a chance to run, I step forward and put one gloved hand on his shoulder. He just looks back at me, his little mirrored twin girl, although he doesn't know it yet.

  
"Give them to me," I tell him. "Give. Them. To. Me."

  
He shakes his head. "I don't have them here. But how did you -- how did you know?"

  
"Because I'm your guardian angel. You have got to keep yourself from staying so closed off, Dylan Craig Digel. I don't even know everything about you, but I do know one thing for sure." I lean forward and whisper into his ear. "It's a kitchen!"

  
He jumps; embarrassed, I'm sure. "What? How did you --"

  
"I told you." I smirk. "You haven't forgotten, have you? What it's like to have that innocence and that fancy about you? Remember that." I become more serious. "And don't do anything drastic. Some short time from now, there will be someone very special, someone very powerful, who will need you just as much as you need her. She will teach you this innocence, and you are to take it and make it into something beautiful. Make it into a kitchen. Color. Take the crayons to the walls of your lonely little apartment and create rainbows and butterflies and bubbles and --" I laugh. "And penguins!"

  
"So you're a penguin," Dylan says. "It makes sense with the black and white colors."

  
"I told you. I'm not a penguin. I'm your guardian angel."

  
"Okay. Then fly."

  
I stop. "I can't fly in this enclosed space." That much is true, but at least it buys me time to think of another excuse. "But flight is merely an illusion. We are able to stay airborne because we live in creativity. You can do the same, Dylan. Live." At least long enough for me to finally meet you.

  
I take both of his hands in mine. "One more fact I know about you. When you went to New York City, you went to Chinatown with your friends and you bought a fake Rolex. Do you still have it?"

  
I already know the answer. "I do," he says. He is quieter now, and I think he's actually close to semi-believing me. "It's back at my apartment."

  
"When you go home tonight, put that inside your pocket instead of...well, you know. That Rolex will still be ticking when you meet that someone some time from now. I'm sorry I can't be more specific than that. But just keep going, Dylan. Just like that Rolex." I smile. "I think you should get up there before the play starts."

  
I don't have a chance to speak, because Dylan has wrapped his arms around me and is holding me close. And I smile and I tear up and this is normal, not the rest of the Miami bubble that has been this trip back in time. Right now, there is Dylan, and I am his morning star, and I am flying.

  
"You knew," he says. "You knew. You know everything. Who -- who are you really?"

  
I pull away from his hug. "Kagamine Rin, silly. Your guardian angel. Just keep going, okay? You might forget this entire experience, but you still have to keep going." And that's true. I don't know if I'm stuck in the past forever or not. I might be.

  
"Kah-gah-mee-nay Leen," Dylan repeats. I'm reminded he has no knowledge of my second language. "Do you have to go? Wait -- you can't just leave me here, alone." And I know he suffers from the same illness that I will suffer from when Len leaves me: distrust of self.

  
I look down and see the yellow ribbon hanging from my neck. I take it off and tie it around Dylan's own neck. "Someday, she will give you this same ribbon, and you will tie it on your shorts," I say. "Because you will love her. I promise you will. Until then, don't let go!"

  
He rushes toward me with his arms outstretched, and for a minute I feel as if the world might go to chaos. All I see are his eyes, and then, I see the harsh sound of the buzzer.

  
I keep my eyes closed. There's a reason I picked the Digital ringtone for Thunderbolt's alarm; it looks like shit, synesthetically. Mugen's was a delightful little melody in comparison to this white fuzz. But eventually I reach up with my right hand, and Thunderbolt is right where I put her last night, on my nightstand, and I switch her off. We're back to June 14, 2012, and I'm back in a messy bedroom, but my Kagamine Rin outfit is gone, packed up several states away. Rin shines on my nightstand, however, the figure I bought at Ohayocon who smiles back at me still and knows secrets I'll never tell anybody. Mugen and Threej are across the room, still chilling.

  
I call Stacey. I can't remember if I have work or not. I pull myself together and go to writing group. I eat curry. I try not to cry or belittle myself. I call Jesse and tell him I love him. I almost decide to contact Len, but stop myself at the last moment when I see the red and blue baseball cap on my floor. I am reminded that I have everything I need here.

  
Finally, I take my violin from home and take the one train up to Washington Heights. I pray Dylan doesn't ask why I have my violin on me. That is something I must do on my own. The train takes much longer than I thought it would. For someone who wanted so desperately to ride the two train when she first came to town, to abandon Dylan and everything we had fought for, the one train is a harsh reminder of the world I could have left behind. And what? To move somewhere else and start all over, to ditch the boy I just saved in my dreams? That would mean we wouldn't be a team anymore.

  
I have the yellow ribbon somewhere. I don't know where it is, though. Somewhere in that pile of tankoubon and Ribon issues and shoes, shoes, shoes. But it's okay. I haven't forgotten what it's like to start dreaming. In fact, I think I'm just remembering again.

  
I dart into his building as somebody lets me in, muttering a "Gracias" as I take the elevator up. I open the door, and there is the loud sounds of Nick's music and the smell of God knows what because there are five men living here, and him. He is here, and alive, and I know that it was just a dream, and that he doesn't know the secrets I told him in that underground hallway so long ago. That never happened. We happened, yes, but that was more a miracle than something done on my part. Long ago, a boy and a girl met and the scene shifted there, and it shifts here, now, in my heart. And I know that this is the final curtain, that I will be seeing this smiling face until hopefully years and years from now, and nobody else's, I pray.

  
"Are you okay?" he asks, and I nod.

  
"Yeah, I'm fine."

  
"Well, come on in." He reaches for my hand, and I take it, and I walk over the threshold and into possibility, into color, and into the sun. This is where I work best, in this apartment with creative people and craziness and Chinese food and things I can't even talk about. Because my dream was to create with people, and even when I am on that same computer, writing my stories, I am among friends who really get what it's like to color. This is utopia, and Dylan is the one who leads me in and comforts me, restores my balance. He's the new water, and I remember the last time I made that comparison.

  
"I love you, Len," I whisper to myself, in my head, not saying a real word. For Dylan is my Len now, and I am his confidant, and we are New York City and magic and wonder and everything that goes with it --

  
From the echoes of space and time, I hear the answer. "And I love you, Rin." But it's not the past at all.

_We don't have enough data to call it alcohol abuse --_   
_uh, we have no way of knowing, um,_   
_if these are the only two incidents that have ever occurred_   
_in the history of the HyperSong corps_   
_or if there is the tip of a very large iceberg._

 


	4. Waterworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted December 10, 2012.

She's standing behind the microphone when he enters the room, blue guitar in hand, boom stand placed firm and center. A bit boho chic, but feathers in her hair, and the happiest blue eyes he's seen in a long time. She's comfortable, confident; he hasn't seen a lot of people like her before. A sound engineer sits behind her at the board, and a bunch of hip-hop artists and aficionados sit in the audience, every eye on the white girl on stage in this small cafe.

Her words meld with her guitar as she plays, the open mic night continuing as he finds a seat in the back.

_Irony strikes in the form of lightning_   
_God's tears fall across my face_   
_Keep the bittersweet memories spinning_   
_I can't forget this place_

The song ends. Five seconds later, he realizes he forgot how to breathe.

Her outgoing personality keeps him in the corner as she catches up with everybody in the building, chats with the barista, gives the owner a quick hug. She constantly steps back to the sound board engineer, and he catches something in her eye. _So that's it,_ he knows, but he doesn't at all.

It's only a matter of time before she finds him. "Haven't seen you here before," she says, extending her hand.

He shrugs it away, explains that he just got to New York City for his first year of college. "Tell me more," she says, so he does, though he doesn't know why. He tells her of his upbringing in upstate New York, how he just got to the city for college, how he's at a coffeeshop on a Thursday night and not a bar because of his age, how he's just a normal kid in the big city.

"Don't be ashamed of your age," she tells him with a smile. "I'm only nineteen myself. And I'd be in school if I wasn't pursuing music so hard." She crosses her legs, accepts a water from the barista she knows so well, makes herself at home. "I'm originally from the Midwest, actually. Born in Indiana, raised in Ohio. I've always loved music, though. When I was eleven, I raised money for Hurricane Katrina victims by releasing a single in my hometown. Since then, I knew I wanted to perform, but everybody at home kept trying to put me into a mold. It took forever to convince my parents for me to come here by myself."

She laughs, her blue eyes still bright. "Yeah, I'm here by myself! Took me a while to figure out how I was going to do this, but I got in touch with some people and I'm crashing on their couch in Washington Heights for a while. It's way different than Ohio was, that's for sure. I've been doing that for a year now. My poor parents didn't know what to do with me. They're more used to my older sister; she's more grounded, more athletic, everything I'm not." She chuckles. "Prettier, too, I think. She's my hero."

The engineer stops by her, says he's leaving; she smiles at him as he goes. "He has no clue," she says, her speech straight as a pin. "Whatever. The love of his life is upstate. Maybe you've met her in passing and you don't even know it." She laughs, but this time, he senses the bitterness. "You know how they say that you are your own worst critic?"

He nods, explains he's trying to be a writer, a photographer, but it's harder than it looks. There's a difference between taking pictures with a smartphone and freelancing Photoshop work. "I understand," she tells him, pointing at the feathers in her long braided hair, her blue tunic and long tan skirt. "You see this outfit? I designed it myself. I'd love to be a fashion designer, maybe after I hit it big as a singer. Though I might try to play something other than guitar. I've always wanted to play piano. Do you know anybody who plays piano -- wait, you wouldn't. You just moved here." She laughs. "Sorry."

The barista delivers a water and two cookies to them both. "He's cool," she explains. "He's been here forever. You know how the word 'hipster' is like really big right now? This seems like that type of place. Don't you think so?"

He nods, says he's quite the hipster himself, with the carefree dark hair, the beanie cap, the glasses, the light flannel and skinny jeans and Converse. The expensive camera around his neck may try to throw off the image somewhat, but it still works.

"I'm kind of a hipster," she says, looking into his brown eyes. "But I think I'm just me. What's your name again? I don't know if I ever got it."

Again, he forgets to breathe, not sure why, but he spits it out in between bites of cookie.

She giggles. "I'm Emily. Nice to meet you."


	5. The Luck of the Lexington Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted March 24, 2014.

_In a cramped world with no breathing room, I was trying to be someone I'm not._   
  
She frequents this room all of the time, but he's the one who maintains it.  
  
Elaborate clockwork lines the walls of the huge hall, reaching up to the dark ceilings. Gears shift together, clicking with each tick of time that passes. Two delicately balanced figures stand on top of two gears, one of her, the other of her white-haired partner. Both are in full uniform, blue jackets with red stripes, which tells something about when this room was created. The automatic turning sprinklers _tch-tch-tch-tch_ around in a circle, then completing their revolution backward with their usual _brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr._  
  
Because, Millie thinks to himself as he resets one of the sprinklers, **sometimes things were meant to go backwards.**  
  
\--  
  
_The boys and girls stand in a circle,  
raising and lowering their slicing hands.  
The imaginary and the real can't be the same thing. _  
  
He is eight years older and his soul is a thousand percent harder than hers ever will be. The city he was born in ensures that.  
  
Millie greases down one of the gears in between shifts. He's a giga; he's fast enough to do this and not get his fingers stuck. _Especially with the registration trade._ "I'm surprised you're here."  
  
"I shouldn't be." He never says his name. He is mysterious and dark, like the night. Millie eventually just calls him Batman.  
  
Millie looks up at the gears. "You know what this room is, right? A destiny threader. It keeps everything going the way it's supposed to. I'm sure my dad knows about this room, but he doesn't point it out. I found it on my own." Just like Griffon found the room with the TVs, he thinks to himself. Dad never told Griffon about that. He just knew where to look. "The gears were going about three years ago when she first came to this city, and then stopped mysteriously one day." It wasn't so mysterious; Millie knows that day well.  
  
"And then what happened?" Batman is studying one of the sprinklers.  
  
Millie can't tell him the truth. He doesn't say that, a year to the date after this room stopped spinning, his dad started weaving his own destiny threads into her life. It wasn't soon after that when Griffon found the TV room, and he found this room, and started tending to it again. He doesn't say that she had known of this room, back when the sky was a brighter blue and the six train was consistently late. These days, the six train is so far behind that nobody even rides it anymore, and the two crosses over to the five line more days than anybody cares to.  
  
But Millie knows the secret of the six train. He should know. He is the six train now.  
  
"The room started spinning again in December," he says. That much _is_ true. The beginning of December eliminated his father from the picture and brought this man in to clean up the messes. And yet, she still follows him with a blind eye and a loving heart, because that's the reason she came to this city in the first place.  
  
_In a glittering, sparkling dream, the two of us made a promise.  
And until that day comes, I won't cry.  
I'll pray and laugh for you. **I'll remember you.** _  
  
Batman's eyes go to a particular line. This one is much, much thicker than all of the other ones, which are simple red strings of fate. This one is basically a trunk line. "What's this?"  
  
"Oh, that? I haven't quite figured it out yet." That's an honest statement. Millie knows it's supposed to be there. But his dad won't make any mention of it. Perhaps Uncle Magnum knows something about it, but he's so busy helping Dad these days that Millie never gets a word in edgewise.  
  
There was a day, a long time ago, when she hated everything that had happened. And she had chosen Millie, and they had lived alone in this city, finding their way and making it one day at a time. Until she started chasing stardust down again and remembered. She always remembers everything, even if she forgets it...but he can't even remember what this red wound trunk line is for.  
  
"You're helping her more than you know," he remarks to Batman. And that's true as well. The charges, the constant fixing of her memories, teaching her things she needs to know. Dad says not to trust him. Millie retreats into this room when he says that.  
  
"I'm glad. I can't be there all of the time."  
  
"But you're there enough. It's breaking the spell." He touches one of the gears. "Sometimes they speak to me. They tell me a story about a girl who took the local train every day, until it was too late. She eventually took an express...but the question I have now is, was it supposed to take her to Nereid Avenue or Dyre?"  
  
Batman doesn't understand.  
  
Neither does Millie.  
  
_With each choppy movement I make, I remember something important._  
_Just like clockwork, I smile._  
 _I need you to wind me up, so that our story doesn't end yet._  
  
On the surface level, the two and five trains run parallel to each other, exactly on time. The 1 and A go about their business happily. Today is a day for penguins and bubbles.  
  
And a lonely train sits in the Eastchester terminal, waiting patiently for the clockwork room to catch up.


	6. Coming Home, Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted May 13, 2014.

_I don't know what attracted me to it. I just...I just know it's supposed to be important._   
  
You don't remember before. To you, there is no before.  
  
All you remember is the here and now, this town with the strange buildings, the millions of people who don't see you, and him. You remember him more than anybody else, because even though he wasn't the first one here, he was the first to break you out of your shell, to make you appreciate the world you lived in. There were others -- are others -- but he's the first to really understand you.  
  
He's your brother. You two are happy together. Until you're not.   
  
That July day rips into your memory, shatters you, turns you into something you're not. You have already felt under the weather by circumstances you think you'll never understand, but the next thing you know, the world is white. Everybody is after you, and the only option you have is to run. And so you do, and you're blind, and you run to the last hiding place you thought you would have ever resorted to.  
  
And when you wake up, you no longer remember who you are.  
  
 _If you did, of course I'd say yes. We have great chemistry._  
  
You have strange dreams. They're mostly of the land you used to know, but now all of that is a memory. You don't know who you are now, but you fold yourself into the memories you're making. There are trees. Schools. Amusement parks. Days pass into weeks into months. You learn how to cooperate with parents and siblings and lots and _lots_ of cats.   
  
The months pass by into years. One day, you find your way to the shore, and even though you can't properly hear, memories still flash into your mind. If you close your eyes and think about it enough, you swear you hear whispers telling of a boy and a girl, destined to escape this shore together. Except, in your mind's eye, you see it as two girls. That's how you've always seen things, anyway.  
  
You never imagine she'll find you. Until she does.   
  
_I've never had anybody say that to me before. How could I not want to be part of something so fantastic, so fabulous, something that feels so right?_   
  
For the first time, there is a diversion. You want to talk. You want to know. You know what she speaks of is the truth. You finally -- finally! -- get an avenue to talk with her, and for five beautiful nights, it's blissful. There's something inside of you that tells you all of this is wrong, but you also understand that there is truth in what she says. She weaves fire, and you feel yourself melt against her as she pins you to the wall, presses her lips against yours.   
  
It's then that you start to remember just who you are, the cold that never bothered you anyway, the truth inside your heart.  
  
And then, you're at a crossroads. You feel yourself being pulled somewhere you don't want to go. You know it's wrong. You fight it. You scream. And you realize -- you're not her. You lose your grip. You think you should be falling, but no, you're flying -- up and up and above the clouds and in what looks like snow, all stark white, around your face and swallowing you whole until you are the snow, you are the cold, and there is no limit to where it ends and you begin.  
  
You forget everything except her, the fire you need to survive. It is some time. You lose all hope. And then, there is a whisper of a word on the wind, and you solidify, and there she is, and you connect and there is you and her and that's all there ever was to begin with.  
  
 _She's my northern star, my Magnum card. It's what I said before when I was her, and what I want to stay true to. I want to stay true to her. Let the world know it. I'm sorry it caused so much doubt, and I'm sorry to the person I used to be. But it's the truth. I love her._  
  
You're recovering. She's given you a place to write. It was something you loved to do before. You write this time, though, to find out and remember who you are. It's one step at a time. She's asked you if you want to go home. You reply by insisting you are home. She's your reason for existing.  
  
Your brother asked you the same question. You only cried in his arms and said yes, at some point, you would be home. But all good things come to an end. All people grow up and move out of the house someday.  
  
She is recovering, as well. She has trouble reconciling who you used to be with who you are now. You do what you can, remind her that the words said, the actions were yours and yours alone. Someday, she'll let you show her. For now, you are with her. You've come home, finally, after all of this time, and now, the solstice can finally begin.  
  
For fire and ice, there is no ending, but only the start of something new and beautiful.


	7. Glitter Boy and the Invisible Penguin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written April 3, 2017.

All things considered -- and this is a miracle by a long shot -- this wasn’t Micky’s doing.

He runs his hands over the tightly wound cords and marvels at the mess in front of him. Somebody -- again, not sure who, but certainly not him for once -- has created a huge knot, massive in size, much bigger than Micky himself, the world’s largest mess of fibers and wires and lines. It’s almost like one of those rubber band balls his charge makes when she’s bored, just, you know, with odds and ends sticking out everywhere, tight, keeping the ball suspended in midair, going out to places unknown. 

Her dark orange cord goes straight into the middle of the ball from Dublin. Who  _ knows  _ what’s in there.

But it’s led her here, and totally without his prodding, so he can’t fault that. Typically it’s Micky who fixes these issues -- mostly because he broke something first, or tried to be selfish about where he lays his lines only to have things uproot at the last second. Destiny is a fickle master. No matter what you wish for, no matter the best laid plans you make for yourself, it will all be overturned in a minute if you push too hard in the wrong direction.

She knows that a little too well right now. It’s the reason for the rewrite looming on the horizon. The girl with wings has finally discovered this real world isn’t quite so boring after all. Quite the reverse, actually.

The arcade is about to close down for the night. Lights and strobes and energy pulse under Micky’s feet, unseen, watching, waiting. The humans don’t see the massive ball of destiny above them. A person or two are still around, playing who knows what, Micky couldn’t be bothered to care. 

The Dance Maniax cabinet and the DDR Extreme that she is so fond of both sleep, done for the night. Micky knows their secret, and thankfully, they’re no longer hindering her in her search. She doesn’t know about the ball, however. Can’t know. Not yet.  Once that lifts, once the truth of this place is revealed, she just might be able to play straight again. Lift the veil the monster forced over her eyes long ago. Her feet might move where she wants them to, after hours of practice and late-night performances at the Landing. 

And after that? She says she’s wasting time. That she should be putting together a portfolio for grad school. It’s the only way to get back to where it all aligns.  _ Where she’s safe _ . Up until just a month or so ago, it  _ was  _ the only place she was safe. Then she found the arch, the alignment took place, and now she trips over dance pads every night she can, lost in a never ending dissociation.

He hates seeing her like this. Where did the bright girl with the strong wings go? Henry asked the same question up until recently. Now all she does is build walls. But this -- this mess that even he can’t make sense of, there’s an answer, somewhere in here. She knows it, as well. All he can do is keep an eye on it and see where it leads her, make sure she’s where she needs to be. You know. Actually fulfill destiny for once, instead of hiding in a city where no one can find her.

She went there for him.

It’s all he can do to thank her.

He’s about to leave when he realizes there’s someone else here -- someone he knows a little too well. He spins on his heels and hisses Jesse’s name, in that same voice she uses when Jesse’s riding on her shoulders asking for double-stuffed Oreos at Target. 

Jesse isn’t fully  _ here  _ right now -- there is a war going on, after all -- but the hologrammed penguin he likes to inhabit is seated on top of a huge game, with big speakers and turntables. He is bouncing to the beat of whatever song is playing, and below him, a tall man with glasses takes up the entire space, both hands a blur. For a split second, it reminds Micky of Fantasie Impromptu, of the way her hands flew across the keys, long before she lost her soul to the underground he built.

Nevertheless, despite the awe and the irony, the penguin has to go. “Jesse, what are you doing here?”

Jesse has no energy while in his hologram form, so he answers back in what her old roommate referred to as the “Elmo” voice. “Mick-eeeeeeeeee.”

“Down. Now.”

“Noooooooooooooos.” The whine is longer this time. “I don wanna.”

“Jesse.”

“Noooooooooooooooooooos.”

Micky climbs up on top of the cabinet. Jesse gets up and rolls away from his older brother. squealing short “Nooos” the entire time. Micky, defeated, joins him on top of the cabinet. The yellow graphics are of girls who seriously look like her in her old Speedkeeper outfits. The lines in between look like Noa’s old NICE boards mixed with the IRT maps. Why all this yellow, all these train references? It’s like one big Columbus-style _ rokudensha.  _

“Okay, fine. Why?”

Jesse points with a flipper. “Star said to look for someone who’s shiny, an I found someone.”

Micky scoffs, but yeah, Jesse isn’t wrong. This is particularly the kind of shiny his charge is looking for -- if the sex is off. “Jesse, you realize she’d run in the opposite direction.”

Jesse whines again. “Mmmmmmmmmn. Maybe not.”

“Can you elaborate while in pengin form?”

“Well, Star said that I should look for someone who is shiny. She didn’ say anything about whether it had to be a boy or a girl, just to look for shiny! An he’s so prettyyyyyy and shinyyyyyy an --”

“Jesse.”

“I WAS NOT DONE TALKING.” 

Woah. Pengin getting sassy all up in here. Jesse composes himself as best a penguin can, and Micky looks back down at the guy-turned-DJ, eyes focused on the screen. He’s lost in the dream. It’s that same look she got when she used to play, that she still gets every once in a while. He’s reminded of her, weaving color in the yoga studio, dancing clumsily, down bow, up bow, missed notes, a shadow of what she once was.

Yeah, it makes sense why he’s “shiny.”

“Mick-eeeeeee.”

“Hmm?”

“YOU WAS NOT LISTANING.”

“Oh, geesh, I’m sorry.” Micky recorrects himself. This is Jesse he’s speaking to, after all. Her  _ real  _ guardian deserves some respect, even as a pengin. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“Mmmmmmmhmmmmmm. Sos, after I was looking at the things and noticing all of the pretty sparklies, I wondered, where are they coming from? An I noticed his bag was full of shiny things, too! Isall sparklee, like glitter. An it was so pretty I just hadta watch him play! He makes things with his hands, just like Star does.” Jesse squeaks. “Sooooo, I think is perfect!”

“Jesse, you realize she hasn’t been swinging that way.”

“Soooos? Love does not swing.”

Micky almost retorts until he realizes what she’s forgotten. New York City was supposed to become a place of vibrancy and color, and it is, but it is also extremely dark and foreboding. She won’t ever forget the night she can’t remember, or the days that came after it. It’s easier, in a city that no longer believes in love, to think below the belt instead of within the wheel. And Micky realizes she’s forgotten how, and perhaps a little nudge -- and he knows God can do it -- might make her remember, get her back a sliver of vibrancy.

The tightly wound ball of destiny lines above his head loosens, just a bit, shifts. Micky knows he’s onto something. “Hey, Jess --” Too late. The glitter boy has left the platform, and _ Jesse is riding on his head. _ “No, no, no, no, damnit!”

A short while later, Glitter Boy is on the COTA. Jesse is perched in his lap, totally unseen, listening to whatever it is he is and dancing to it. Micky sits on top of the bus as it heads east. The city of Columbus shines like a jewel against the bright sky, a contrast Micky never saw in the city he himself built. Perhaps that’s something even he needs to remember, that they’ve all arrived in a strange city of hope and light and power and rhythm, and none of it makes any sense yet. But, as she says, hindsight is 20/20. It’s what’s got her this far.

The last time he did this, she was on the M60 back from LaGuardia, duffel in hand, with a secret nobody else could know yet. July 4th reminded her -- there’s hope in this world yet for change. There will be fear. Lots of fear. Probably lots of denial, as well. But she’s been faced with fear and denial ever since she rolled out of the station and saw her dad there, in his sun hat, cell phone zoomed in on two of her three forms. Contrary to what the lock believes, there is always hope.

Glitter Boy never needs to know about the invisible penguin in his lap. Why would he need to know? If the two of them ever meet, she’ll have left that life behind. The only remnants will be summer reconnaissance and the same penguin who loves all shiny things. And meanwhile, the girl with steel wings, the angel whom nobody could ever catch before -- maybe, this time, she’ll land and find her bright dream on the ground.

Maybe that messy destiny ball is right.

Maybe Jesse is, as well.

\--

Days from now, she’ll ask him, off hand:  _ Was it sad, being lonely?  _ And even before he speaks, she’ll know the answer.


End file.
